


connective tissue

by whiplash



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Little bit of angst, M/M, but mostly just happy stuff, hugh is his sunshine alright, maybe some praise kink?, paul is a soft and silly man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: “The body’s connective tissues work just like your mycelium network” Hugh explains, and that’s an insult to everything that Paul holds holy and true. But Hugh’s cradling his foot, digging his thumb into the arch of it, and Paul goes breathless and forgets (and forgives) the man’s irreverence.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	connective tissue

“Ear over shoulder,” Hugh intones. “And breathe.”

The stretch hurts. Not just in Paul’s neck, but up his jaw and down his shoulder too. When he swallows, the pain even travels down his throat. It’s worse than it was before they started, back when his only complaint had been yet another splitting headache. 

“ _Breathe_ ,” Hugh orders again. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” 

Paul wants to object, half-a-dozen razor-sharp arguments on the tip of his tongue, but this is Hugh. This is Hugh, whole and alive. This is Hugh, back with him again. This is _Hugh_ , and so Paul bites his tongue and exhales. 

“Now, roll your head forward, chin to chest. Then-“ 

_-the other side_ , Paul fills in as he twists his head. In hindsight, the movement is far less gentle than it should have been. At the sudden twist, something in his neck crunches. Air explodes out of his nose, and Paul bites his lip to keep from whining as the pain in his neck and shoulders doubles. 

He tenses, waiting for Hugh to comment, but there’s just silence. He opens his eyes a sliver, peering up at his husband. Hugh stands by the end of the exercise mat, bare feet planted on the floor and thick arms crossed over his chest. He’s frowning, just as Paul had worried that he might. Even worse, there’s an unhappy twist to his lips. Like he's disappointed. Paul’s stomach drops at the sight. 

He straightens his head and blinks his eyes fully open. 

“Sorry,” he offers. “I don’t mean to be difficult. We can try again.” 

Hugh’s frown softens. 

“You never _mean_ to be difficult,” he says, though with more fondness in his voice than exasperation. He smiles down at Paul, the unhappiness gone, or maybe just tucked away from sight. “Let’s try something else. On your belly, arms by your side.” 

Paul crawls forward, elbows on the mat as his legs stretch back behind him. He lowers himself down fully, gingerly turning his head to the left side. Holding in a breath, he draws down his shoulders from his ears and shifts his arms so that they’re palms up on the floor. 

_See,_ he thinks at his husband, _I do listen. I can learn._

“Good,” Hugh praises, and the warmth in his voice makes Paul relax down into the mat. He continues in the same lovely voice: “I’m gonna touch your shoulders now, okay?” 

His hands are big and strong, his fingers cupping Paul’s collarbones as his thumbs trace the edges of his shoulder blades. He puts firm pressure on the shoulders, guiding them down and even further away from Paul’s ears. 

“See, this is why you keep getting these tension headaches,” he scolds. “Now, you let me know if I’m hurting you, alright?” 

Paul hums in agreement. 

He doesn’t have to say anything though. 

Hugh reads his body like an open book, translating every shift and wriggle into a commentary on his work. The massage is punctuated by little commands and a litany of praise but other than that their room stays quiet and peaceful. For once, the shut door seems to keep the rest of the world at bay. 

The pain doesn’t go away as much as it transforms. First to a steady discomfort, then to a nearly bearable pressure. Hugh doesn’t just go over Paul’s neck and shoulders though, he does his arms and hands, his back and buttocks, legs and feet as well. 

“The body’s connective tissues work just like your mycelium network,” he explains, and that’s an insult to everything that Paul holds holy and true. But Hugh’s cradling his foot, digging his thumb into the arch of it, and Paul goes breathless and forgets ( _and forgives_ ) the man’s irreverence. 

Above him, Hugh chuckles. 

“You laughing at me?” Paul asks, the words slurring together. 

“Never,” Hugh lies. “Now, roll over so I can do your front.” 

Under his hands Paul melts into the mat. He breathes as directed. Lifts and turns and twists as instructed. And by and by, soft and stupid thoughts begin to fill his head. The world turns watercolor soft and he feels drunk. Happy drunk. Silly drunk. 

Something warm and fuzzy drapes over his shoulders, covering him from neck to toe. Hugh’s hand strokes over his head, his thumb rubbing an absent circle over Paul’s temple. Paul wants to nuzzle into that warm hand, wants to press kisses against the thin skin of Hugh’s wrist, and taste him. He wants to press close, cling tight, and never let go. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. Not ever again. 

“Hush,” Hugh murmurs, his fingers gentle as he wipes away the wetness from Paul’s face. “None of that now. Just breathe. In and out…” 

Paul breathes. 

Everything’s all tangled up inside him, he’s happy and sad, light and heavy, there and not there. He’s moments away from sleep, he realizes, and there’s work to do, always so much work, but Hugh’s hands anchor him to the ground, to the mat, to his body, and he’s falling... he’s falling... 

And he falls, knowing Hugh will be there when he wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment if you have a moment to spare :)


End file.
